She couldn’t believe she was kissing him like this after so many months of yearning and wondering. After so many months of telling herself she was going to steer clear, stay away, protect herself from the heartache that would inevitably follow this stupid, stupid decision.
But it didn’t feel stupid right now—in fact, it felt unbelievably good to have his wide shoulders under her hands and his body pressed against her. She combed her fingers up into his hair and rocked her hips against him, and the groan deep in his chest gave her a rush of adrenaline. Was she really doing this? Right in this room, barely a stone’s throw away from all the people she worked with? She dug her nails into his scalp and kissed him with a vengeance that pushed the doubts and logic out of her mind.
His knuckles brushed against her stomach as he worked the button of her pants free, and she heard the soft hiss of the zipper. She pulled back, and their gazes locked as her slacks slid to the floor. Her legs felt bare and exposed. The hot intensity in his eyes made her stomach flutter and made her think again about what she was doing, but before she could voice any objections, his hands closed around her waist, and he lifted her onto the dresser as if she weighed nothing. He clutched the back of her knee and hitched her thigh up to his waist, and she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him close.
“You are so fucking sexy.” His mouth burned a trail over her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes and stroked her hands over his shoulders. They were so big—he was so big, everything about him.
They kissed and kissed until she felt like she was going to combust, and then he unhooked her ankles behind him. He dropped to a crouch to untie his boots, still watching her, desire burning in his eyes as he jerked the laces.
He was here. They were doing this. The determined look on his face made her ears ring and her pulse race. He stood up, then toed off his boots and kicked them away.
She reached for the waistband of his jeans and pulled him closer as he yanked the shirt over his head. And then they were fighting with his belt, his button, his zipper.
“Hurry, or I’ll lose my nerve.”
“No, you won’t,” he growled, nipping her neck. He shoved his jeans down, and she squeezed her legs around him as hard as she could. He lifted her right up off of the dresser and carried her to the bed and laid her back on it with surprising gentleness. His movements were careful, but the fierce look in his eyes made her heart skitter.
And then her gaze slid down his body, and her heart nearly stopped altogether.
Oh, my God. She sat up on her elbows to look. She traced a hand over his shoulder, his chest, his perfectly sculpted abs. He rested his knee between her thighs, and he stretched out over her, supporting himself with his arms as she looked at him in awe. She knew he kept in peak physical condition. She knew he spent hours and hours a week running and swimming and lifting and God only knew what else. But actually seeing the evidence of it . . .
“Wow,” she said, and her cheeks warmed, because it sounded so childish.
He smiled and kissed her, and she ran her hands over his shoulders, unable to get enough of him, so blown away it was almost embarrassing. No, it definitely was embarrassing. She’d never been with a man who was so completely male in every conceivable way. She squirmed out from under him, and he gave her a confused look as she nudged him onto his back. Heat flared in his eyes, and she felt the shift in equilibrium as she shoved him back against the bed and straddled him.
“I need to just—” She settled herself against his erection, and he closed his eyes and groaned.
“Sorry.” She brushed her hair from her eyes. “I need to look at you.”
“Don’t be sorry. Jesus.” He gazed up at her, and his jaw was tight, and he looked like he was almost in pain as she sat back on him and stared. “Look all you want.”
He’d asked about her scar, but he had so many more. She traced her finger over the welt on the side of his shoulder and the one under his collarbone. She traced over his chest to the trail of dark hair that started at his navel, then ran her finger back up to his ribs, where there was a jagged mark. Shrapnel? Her heart jumped into her throat, but she forced a smile.
He slid his hands over her thighs and up under her blouse, and she closed her eyes and tipped her head back as he cupped her breasts with his huge palms. His thumbs rasped her nipples, sending little shivers down her spine as she undid her buttons one by one.
He watched her intently as she shrugged off her shirt and reached back to unhook her bra. She slid it from her arms, and he sat up and dragged her against him, and the hot pull of his mouth made her go dizzy. He felt so good. Everywhere. Everything. His lips, his hands, the big, hard ridge of him pressed between her legs.
She rocked against him, again and again, until the tension started to build and their movements and kisses became more and more urgent. He shifted her and held her at the edge of the bed with one arm as he pulled her panties down her legs and tossed them away, and then she was back astride him, fusing herself against him and kissing him until she could hardly breathe. She noticed the condom sitting on the nightstand and had no idea when it had come to be there, only that she needed it desperately. She reached across him, and he went after her breast, and she fell against the table with a yelp. His mouth was hot and greedy against her skin. She pressed the condom into his hand and then distracted herself by kissing him as he shifted and pulled it on. And then he moved under her.
“Liz.”
“Hurry.”
“I don’t want to hurt—”
She cut him off with a kiss and moved her hips and—
Pain and pleasure speared through her. She gasped and gripped his shoulders.
“Oh, God.” She closed her eyes and surged against him, loving the pressure and the pain and the hot, hard friction of him.
He clutched her hips. The stubble of his beard scraped her tender breasts as he kissed her and nipped at her and she set a rhythm.
“Derek,” she gasped. “Oh, my God.”
“Tell me when.” He said it through gritted teeth, but she couldn’t respond.
She couldn’t do anything but urge him to keep going and going and—
“Tell me.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, rocking her hips against him again and again. “Yes.”
He bucked under her, and there was a white-hot burst, and her body shuddered and convulsed as she crashed against him. And then it was like the earth rose up beneath her, and he flipped her onto her back, and he was driving her up, up, up, all over again. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. She could only cling to him and dig her nails into his back as he plunged into her over and over and the tremors started again. They took over her body, and just as she couldn’t take another moment, another instant, he pulled back and gave a final, powerful thrust and fell against her.
She lay beneath him, too stunned to speak or even move. Not that she could have with his weight pinning her against the mattress. She shifted her hips, and he pushed up on his arms and then flopped onto his back with a groan.
She watched him, her pulse still roaring in her ears and her body throbbing.
“Holy Christ, Liz.” He turned to look at her.
She didn’t say anything, and he got up and disappeared into the bathroom briefly. When he rejoined her in bed, she scooted close, resting her head on his biceps. Because it felt natural. It seemed like the thing to do. She flattened her hand on his chest and felt his heart pounding against her palm.
Her mind reeled. For nearly a year, she’d talked herself out of this, she’d stayed away, she’d resisted. And then he’d shown up tonight, and she’d attached herself to him like a limpet. She’d practically jumped his bones, and now he surely knew how pathetically long it had been since she’d had sex with someone.
She looked at the sheen of sweat on his skin. At least, he’d exerted himself, too. He pulled her closer, and she felt a swell of emotion as she traced her finger over his muscular arm.
“Is that . . . glitter?”
He slid a look at her. “Huh?” He glanced at his arm. “Oh, yeah. From Lexi. She had it on when I saw her.”
“And she just . . . happened to shed it on you?”
“It probably rubbed off accidentally.” He squinted at her, then propped himself up on his elbow and gazed down at her. “You’re pissed.”
“Not at all.” She hated the snark in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. She was lying here naked, and now all she could picture was some dancer with her double-D cups rubbing glitter on him. She glanced down at her own chest—perfectly average Bs, thank you very much—and suddenly realized every light in the room was blazing.
“Hey.” Derek smiled down at her, clearly enjoying her petty jealousy. “I didn’t touch her. Not like that.”
“It’s fine. Could you turn off the light please?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s almost four in the morning.”
“You’re not planning to sleep, are you?” His smile widened, and she felt a maddening rush of heat.
She sat up and reached for the lamp herself, bumping her head against his chin.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry,” she said, not sorry at all as she plunged the room into darkness.
He hauled her on top of him and shifted her hips until she was straddling his lap, and she felt his hot mouth close over her nipple.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, making his way down her body. “I can work in the dark.”
Chapter Sixteen
Elizabeth awoke disoriented. Her eyes felt swollen, her limbs heavy. She squinted at the man sprawled beside her, and everything came back in a flood of erotic images.
She glanced at the clock. The room was gray. Light seeped through the gap in the curtains, and she looked at Derek again. He lay on his stomach with his head turned away, but the slow rise and fall of his torso told her he was sound asleep.
She watched him breathing, still dazed by what had happened. He’d woken her up again and again, as if he couldn’t get enough of her. Four times in three hours. She hadn’t known men were capable of that. At least, not with her.
In the privacy of the dim light, she sat up and allowed herself to really look at him unguarded for the first time. She studied his muscled arms, his wide shoulders, the deep valley of his spine, where she saw the faint scratches she’d made with her fingernails. He had a scar on his back that she hadn’t noticed before, a diagonal slash beneath his left shoulder blade that had to have been made by a knife.
Her blood chilled. Had he gotten it in training? Or in hand-to-hand combat with someone who actually wanted him dead? The thought of it made her heart squeeze. She silently slipped out of bed and reached for her crumpled blouse on the floor.
He moved and she froze, holding her breath as he turned onto his back with a heavy sigh. His eyelids didn’t even flutter—he was still out cold. She picked up her blouse and took a moment to stare at his strong jaw, his perfect mouth, his scruffy beard, which she now knew could send shivers over her most sensitive skin.
She crept into the bathroom, eased the door shut, and switched on the light. Whoa. She cringed at her reflection. She looked as though she’d been up way too late having way too much fun—which she had.
The last time she’d shared a hotel room with Derek, she’d woken up horribly hungover—parched throat, headache, dizziness, the whole thing. She felt the same way now, even though she hadn’t had a drop of alcohol. So, a sex hangover. Another first for her.
Four times. Maybe for him it was normal, but for her it was . . . unexpected. Surprising.
Maybe even life-altering.
She turned on the shower and climbed under the steaming-hot spray, careful to keep her bandage from getting wet. She hoped the shower would revitalize her, since ten minutes of sleep hadn’t done the trick. Her legs were sore. And her mouth. As she slathered soap on herself, she discovered a hickey on the swell of her right breast. God, when was the last time that had happened? Derek didn’t just have sex, he had sex, with the same relentless intensity he did everything else.
As the water sluiced over her, she realized she was ravenous. He had to be hungry, too, and she thought about inviting him to breakfast. But maybe that was too relationship-y.
’Morning, sweetie. How about an omelet? She imagined him sitting across the table from her, his big hand curved around a coffee cup. She imagined watching him eat pancakes while she remembered him kissing her and licking her and . . . there was no way she could sit across from him ever again and not think about all the ways he’d touched her.
Suddenly, her brain snapped awake. She couldn’t take him to breakfast. What was she thinking? She couldn’t take him anywhere. Gordon’s orders last night had been to get him in or get him in custody. As in arrest him if needed. As in do not stop for sex or pancakes or Starbucks lattes. She needed to get him up and out of her hotel room so he could deliver himself to the office, pronto, to provide the statement he should have provided last night. He needed to document his evening from start to finish, from his underwater discovery to his interview with the dancer. And please, God, omitting the part where he sneaked into an FBI agent’s hotel room and set her off like a firework.
Four times.
She jumped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. She cracked the door to the bedroom to let the steam escape as she hurriedly dragged a brush through her hair. She could dry it later, after she got Derek up and moving. She stepped from the bathroom and looked at the bed.
Empty.
Her stomach dropped as she glanced around. His boots were gone. His jeans were gone, his T-shirt, his belt, his socks. Every sign of him had vanished, even the condom wrappers that had littered the nightstand, and she stood there, stunned, in her too-small bath towel.
He’d gone without a word. Without a kiss. She scanned the room. He hadn’t even left a note on the dresser.
Tears stung her eyes. But she refused to go to the window, refused to allow him to catch a glimpse of her peering through the curtains looking for him.
She went back into the bathroom and brushed her hair again, more slowly this time. She should have seen this coming. Escape and evasion. One of his specialties. He probably did this with all the women he slept with. Why would she be any different?
Her phone dinged, and she felt a pitiful burst of hope as she rushed to pick it up. She saw a slew of messages from Lauren and Torres and even Potter—who’d texted her three times. Nothing from Derek, though. And nothing from Gordon, either.
A sharp rap on the door had her looking up. For a moment, she didn’t move. More rapping, and she could tell it was a man, although she knew it wasn’t Derek. The SEAL who’d slipped into her hotel room like smoke wouldn’t come pounding on her door in broad daylight, loud enough to wake the dead. She threw on some workout clothes as her phone dinged again with yet another message. She ignored it and answered the door.
“Where’s your phone?” Potter demanded. “I’ve been texting you.”
He stood there in his perfect pinstripes, a Starbucks cup already in hand, and she fought the urge to slam the door in his face.
“I don’t usually text from the shower. What’s up?”
“We found Matt Palicek,” he informed her.
“Great. Where was he?”
“Not great. He’s in the morgue.”
* * *
Matt Palicek’s apartment was swarming with law enforcement—Houston PD, FBI, there was even a sheriff’s cruiser. Derek spotted Elizabeth’s white rental car at the far corner of the parking lot beside Potter’s Taurus.
After cleaning up at his folks’ place and wolfing down some breakfast, Derek had finally made it to the FBI field office to recount the previous day’s events ad nauseam. He’d also filled out paperwork and answered questions from a bunch of suits, including Elizabeth’s friend Lauren, who’d relayed the not-so-surprising news that Matt Palicek had turned up dead last night. His Av
alanche still hadn’t been found.
Derek pulled his pickup into a space and watched the crowd of cops in his rearview mirror. His mission here was twofold. One, glean some useful intel about Ameen’s dead accomplice. And two, talk to Elizabeth. As he got out and scanned the scene, he knew the second part of his mission was going to be tougher than the first.
He spotted Jimmy Torres eyeing him from beside a stairwell leading to what he assumed was the victim’s apartment. Derek walked over.
“How’s it going?” he asked amiably, although he knew for a fact that Torres didn’t like him. Some of that was just the usual territorial bullshit, but he was protective of Elizabeth in a way Derek didn’t much like.
“It’s going.”
“Lauren said I’d find Elizabeth around here. You seen her?”
“She’s inside.” He jerked his head toward the stairwell, where two agents were tromping up. They wore dark blue windbreakers with yellow letters on the back: FBI.
“Where’d they find the body?” Derek asked.
Torres watched him silently, probably deciding whether to tell him anything. Derek returned his stare and waited for him to realize that if it weren’t for Derek’s legwork, they wouldn’t even have this guy, not to mention any new leads on Ameen.
“In a ditch off the Southwest Freeway,” Torres told him. “HPD got the call about five. He had his wallet on him, ID inside.”
“Murder weapon?”
“Something high-caliber, maybe a forty-five. We’ll know more after the autopsy.”
“Any sign of the gun?”
“Nope.” Torres glanced up as a pair of agents came down the stairs. Still no Elizabeth. “Could have belonged to the vic, though. He has a big cache up there, all the serial numbers filed off.”
“I’d like to have a look.”
“It’s all tagged and bagged.” Torres pulled out his phone and brought up a digital picture.
Beyond Limits Page 17